


Disaster Boy

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Kinky Gen, Other, Predicament Bondage, Spanking, bdsm scene gone wrong, humiliation play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:58:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Gabe Saporta learned to stop worrying and enjoy being a sadist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disaster Boy

Pete always starts crying when Gabe's fisting him, not in a freaked-out way or an in-pain way but just an overwhelmed cathartic way. Not that that's much of a comfort when it comes to being wrist-deep in somebody who just burst into tears.

Right now Pete's gasping, frantic little jerks of his shoulders and chest on every breath. "Oh God. O-oh, fuck. Gabe. Fuck."

"Easy." Gabe moves his hand just a little, a contraction and release of his wrist. Pete moans helplessly, his fingers arcing against the sheets. "Breathe," Gabe scolds, keeping his voice low. He pumps his fist, just barely, maybe a quarter-inch change in depth. It makes Pete shudder all over and make a noise somewhere between a groan and a cry.

Pete's kind of fascinating when he's coming undone and helpless like this. Gabe sometimes wishes he could see it at times other than when Pete's falling apart.

He plants a few soft kisses along Pete's spine, breathing warm against sweat-slick skin. It distracts Pete enough that he can move his hand again without such a strong reaction. It's a weird feeling, the slide of lube on his own skin against the heat and tension of Pete's body. It's the complete definition of delicate and vulnerable and Gabe can do whatever he wants. Anything.

He kisses the line of Pete's hip, seeks out the curve of bone under the fat and tissue, sets his teeth, and bites.

"Fuck!" Pete's body jerks again, clenching around Gabe's wrist. "Fuck, oh God, s-stop, Jesus, oh my God."

Gabe pulls off slowly, letting his teeth drag over skin. "For real stop or just talking?"

Pete's breathing so hard he can't answer. Gabe waits, keeping his hand still inside Pete, tracing his teethmarks with the other. They look good. They'll bruise.

"Just talking," Pete says finally, looking back over his shoulder. Sweat is streaming down his face like he's been running a marathon. His eyes are wide and wild, the whites bloodshot, tears streaking his cheeks. "Don't stop."

"That's my boy." Gabe pushes his hand deeper and Pete's eyes snap closed, his gasp of breath turning into a guttural cry. His dick is hanging between his legs totally soft. This isn't about getting off, it's about intensity and being overwhelmed; it's about going up to the edge and falling over.

Gabe rotates his wrist, letting his knuckles and the base of his thumb turn against Pete like he's trying to turn him inside out.

He can't help kind of liking having proof that he's the kind of friend you can call on for that kind of trip out of your head. The one who'll not only take you out to the edge, but push you out into gravity.

**

Pete falls asleep after, understandably enough. He's covered in sweat and tears and scummy reside of lube; he never came, but Gabe's pretty sure he'll jerk off as soon as he wakes up and sees that he's alone. Gabe makes a mental note to add buying new sheets to his errands for the afternoon, and to throw out the old ones tonight. All Pete-sticky and not the kind of thing to inflict on his laundry service.

Ryland's waiting for him at their usual lunch place, somehow looking patient and annoyed at once as only he can. "Hi," Gabe says, dropping into the chair across from him. His right wrist feels weird. Cold. He scrubbed it hard to get the lube and...Pete off it, apparently enough to take a layer of his skin off. That might be symbolic, somehow. Or not. Fuck symbolism anyway. "What's up?"

"You're late."

"Sorry."

"I've been waiting." Ryland doesn't sound mad, really, just resigned. Still, Gabe's trying for real dedication to the cause of not being such a dickbag anymore.

"Sorry, dude. Pete." He shrugs, like that'll sum up everything. And it does, really. Pete.

"Ah." Ryland nods and sips his water. "Friend-stuff or the other stuff? Wait, don't tell me. You've still got a semi. Freaky shit it is."

"Fuck you, man." Gabe crosses his legs, thinks better of it, sprawls again. "I've told you fifty times."

"Right." Ryland can put a lot of sarcasm into one syllable. Fucking theater people. "You don't get anything out of it."

"Nope."

"Not a single bit of sexual gratification."

"Only the satisfaction of knowing that I'm giving back to the balance of positive energy in the universe by giving a friend what he wants and needs."

Ryland laughs and shakes his head. "You really do expect us to believe that you're that mechanical about the whole thing."

"Not _mechanical_."

"Sounds like it to me. You are a kink-delivering robot programmed to help a brother out. And Pete is robotsexual."

"Now you're making it sound weird."

"Oh yeah, that's all on me." Ryland rolls his eyes. "You're way less interesting when you're kidding yourself, Gabe."

"I think I'm done with this topic."

"Of course you are. I'm so surprised."

Gabe glares at him. He knows what he looks like when he gets pissed, how the humor drains out of his face and his eyes go flat. It's a family trait, the temper and the eyes; he's seen it in his brother and his mom plenty of times. "Let it go."

Ryland's eyes flick to his face, then away again, and he tips his head an inch to the side in capitulation. Not much, but enough that Gabe will take it. The next round of bullshit dick-swinging dominance fighting is probably the end of the band. Not because Gabe's over it or too much of an adult to do it anymore, but because Ryland is.

"So, we taking the Miami gig?" he asks, and the conversation slides easily into DJing, where the waters are safer.

**

Gabe gets back to his apartment a few hours later and finds Pete on the couch, feet tucked up under himself and _Say Yes To The Dress_ on the TV.

"This is intense," he says flatly. "Go back out and get popcorn."

"Fuck you." Gabe slumps onto the couch beside him and kicks his shoes off. "Is this one of the ones I had DVR'd or is it just on?"

"DVR."

"Cool." They sit in silence until a commercial comes on and Pete mutes the TV instead of skipping ahead.

"Thanks." He frowns slightly, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "You know, for earlier. And everything."

"You don't have to thank me."

"You had your hand up my ass. It's awkward."

"Only if you _talk_ about it." Gabe closes his eyes and slouches low in his seat. "C'mon, Wentz, think."

"Gabe, I'm trying to be serious here."

"I know, and I'm trying to avoid it."

"Please."

That stops him. Pete doesn't say please when they're being normal. They bicker and bitch and hug and tell each other to fuck off. If they're drunk, they hug more and talk about how much they mean to each other. If they're _really_ drunk, they might make out for a while. And if they're really drunk, in a closed space, and having an existential crisis, they'll talk life philosophies. Those are the guidelines that Gabe relies on. They don't include Pete saying he wants to be serious, _please_.

"Are you okay?" Gabe asks cautiously. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. I mean, yes. Wait." Pete exhales. "Yes, I'm okay, no, you didn't hurt me."

"Then what's up?"

Pete gestures between them. "This."

"What this."

"This thing we...do."

"Watch shitty TV?"

"You topping me."

The sentence hovers in the air like a brick. Pete's voice doesn't handle saying the second word any better than Gabe's ears handle hearing it.

"Using your hand like that," Pete soldiers on, even though Gabe can see the tension and discomfort in every line of his body. Neither of them _want_ this, why is Pete _doing_ it?

 _Need_ , Gabe thinks vaguely, watching Pete's fingers work restlessly around the remote, against his kneecap. Need and want are a complicated knot where Pete is concerned. Gabe knows this by now.

"And last time in LA, when you held me down." Pete's voice is stumbling again, and it belatedly occurs to Gabe that maybe he was expecting some kind of response. "Or the time before that, with the...at the hotel. You know."

There really isn't a nice way to phrase _wrestling you into a shower to sober you up, and keeping you in the hotel room through physical force when you tried to bolt. Repeatedly._ "Yeah. I know."

"Well." Pete slumps back against the cushion. "All of that."

"What _about_ all of that?"

Pete's eyes are fixed on the TV screen again, but Gabe would bet cash money that he isn't seeing the dress fitting. "I need that stuff. I like that stuff."

"Which one is it? You like it or you need it?"

"Both."

"They're not the same thing, Pete."

"Doesn't mean they're not both true." Pete looks at him again, and his eyes are a sucker punch to the gut, huge and dark and just fucking _exposed_. Vulnerable. Guardrails and shields all gone. The whole idea of being like that for more than a minute scares the shit out of Gabe.

"I've been reading," Pete says. "Researching. It's kink, what we're doing. It's BDSM."

"BDSM is for freaks."

"What's your point?"

Gabe looks away, cutting his eyes to his nice neat bookshelves, his freshly vacuumed carpet, the countertop he wiped clean before he walked out the door to meet Ryland. You can't invoke chaos without having control. You can't call up a party that burns down the world if you haven't, behind the scenes, made sure that everything is _perfect_.

"Okay," Pete says softly, and his knuckles bump against Gabe's knee in a failed caress. "You're not into it. It's cool. It's okay."

"I didn't say that."

"You look like you want to puke."

"I do not."

"I'll find somebody else. It's fine."

Now Gabe looks at him again, the aloofness he was struggling for shattering like glass. "What?"

"Somebody else to...top me." He still stumbles over the word. _Because it's stupid_ , Gabe thinks, with a sharper edge of anger than he expected. _Top him. Like fucking pieces of Tupperware_.

"Where do you think you'll find somebody else? Just walking down the street? The tie me up and slap me store?"

Pete shrugs, his jaw setting defensively. "Clubs. The Internet."

"What the _fuck_ , Pete, I don't know if that'll get you killed or get you a True Hollywood Story first."

"Do they even make that show anymore?"

" _Pete_."

"You don't want to!"

"I didn't say that." He isn't saying it now, even the possibility washed away by a hot rush of emotions he isn't going to waste time sorting out. Worrying about Pete is the strongest one; the image of Pete tied up and naked and gagged and some guy taking pictures to sell online. And then _hurting_ him. Fucking hell, hurting him without giving a shit. Hurting him without caring.

"So you'll keep doing it?" Pete asks, his hands gripping his own thighs now. Gabe doesn't know when the remote got cast aside. "Even if I want...more?"

"What's more?" Pete's jaw tenses again and Gabe gestures in helpless frustration. "Yes, I'll do it, I'm in, I just need you to explain in words I'll understand."

Pete smiles; it's not relaxed, and it's not quite _happy_ \--relieved, hopeful, desperate, but not happy. "Lots of stuff. I've been reading, like I said. I'll send you a bunch of links when I get back to LA."

**

Pete's research is an extensive Google Doc full of links, paragraphs of explanation, more links, hopeful question marks, and poorly-punctuated fantasies. Gabe opens all of the links in a row of tabs that scrolls sideways off his screen and goes through them one by one, leaving his own commentary in the document as he goes. At first he keeps it simple-- _oh yeah_ and _no way_ and _really?_ and _typing one-handed, huh?_

After a while, though, he starts running out of things to say. At least, things that won't give away the funny hot twist in his stomach that keeps cropping up without his permission. Desensitization, he figures. He's spent a few days facedown in this stuff. He needs a break to clear his head and reset his perspective. This isn't him; it's just him wanting to help Pete. He has to keep the lines clear.

Fortunately, Pete's in an upswing. The label is making soothing noises in the direction of his ego, Bronx is the star of the preschool set, the badly-behaved chemicals in his head are playing nice for the moment. The occasional, scattered characters of his texts to Gabe hold together with something that lives in the same apartment complex as optimism. Gabe has time.

He hauls his sorry ass out to Ryland's apartment, letting himself in unannounced and doing the requisite I-didn't-knock, you're-in-your-panties dance with Kristen.

"Give the key back," Ryland says wearily when he emerges from the shower and finds them in the kitchen making tea, Kristen still sans culottes. "Stop trying to seduce my ladyfriend with the Latin lover bullshit."

"She knows better," Gabe says.

"I do." Kristen nods and hands Ryland her mug. "He's thrown up in my hair. I'm immune to any charm and moves he might have."

"In some cultures, puking in your hair is a turn-on," Gabe says. "Like...Martian, I think."

"Go away." Ryland drags his free hand through his wet hair and points at the door. "I'll meet you downstairs, but go away now."

"I've been thrown out of better places than this."

"You're just doing Alan Alda in MASH now, dude. Get out."

The problem with friends who have seen you at your worse and keep you around anyway is that if you do lose them, it'll be because you crossed a really hard-core, unforgivable line. Gabe is blessed and cursed with a vivid imagination and a life that involves people cataloging and sharing a decent percentage of the stupid shit he does. He knows exactly where the bar is set, and can picture precisely detailed ways that he could break his own records and get his ass kicked out of all of his friends' lives.

"Forever alone," he tells the pigeons on the sidewalk. "Fuck off already, birds."

He isn't being Gabe Saporta today; even if Kristen wasn't immune to him, he wouldn't have tried to play games with her. Who he is today doesn't have a name, unless he gives it one right now, standing here waiting for Ryland. _Eddie_ , he thinks vaguely. Sure, today he's Eddie, who wears honest to G-d sweatpants, the kind with elastic in the cuffs, even. Eddie wears t-shirts from 1995 and a Mets hoodie. Eddie is a loser in hipster glasses and a beanie. Eddie is a yutz.

Of course, Eddie would probably be dating a nice Jewish girl and not researching nipple clamps for the benefit of his questionably-mentally-stable-boss-cum-best-friend. So. He shouldn't be too hard on the guy.

"You are mumbling at a wall," Ryland says flatly from behind him. "This is new. I don't like it."

"I need refried beans and something with carob," Gabe tells him.

Ryland blinks slowly. "Are you pregnant?"

"Fuck you, seriously."

"How about we go to Alex's and you can taste-test our salsa?"

"That sounds like code for group sex."

"Let me think. No. But I bet he'll make you guacamole if you ask."

It's better than going home to face the computer. And Eddie would be into guac.

"Lead on," he says, and they fall into step with each other down the sidewalk. Gabe has a weak spot for feeling in synch with someone. Ryland exploits that ruthlessly.

**

With one thing and another, he doesn't talk to Pete about anything real until the next time he's in LA. They're sprawled out on Pete's lounge chairs poolside, him and Ry and Pete and Nate and Spencer. The pool's covered over and it's too cold to even think about it, but smoking of recreational substances is only allowed outside at Pete's house. Kiddo rules.

"Fuck," Pete mumbles, resting his head in his hands. "Nate--Nathaniel--my brother--my friend--"

Nate exhales a slow, fuzzy cloud. "I know."

" _Fuck_ , man."

"Top grade," Spencer agrees lazily. "The fucking best."

"I'm in awe." Pete throws his arm out dramatically, his hand landing with a thump on Gabe's chest. Gabe grunts in annoyance, closing his eyes. It's a good high, but it's making him feel a little exposed. Like they can all see his skeleton or some shit. And that's cool mostly--these are his brothers and he loves them like crazy--but a man's bones should be kept to himself.

 _And his boners_. It's a distracting thought for a minute, and he chases it, trying to figure out if it's maybe a song. A man's bones and his boners--no, no radio play there, no putting that on the one they can sell at Walmart. Shit.

Pete's hand is petting at his chest now, flopping against his sternum like a fish. "Stop that," Gabe mumbles.

"You're fuckin' skinny." Pete rubs his fingers up and down Gabe's ribs and Gabe grits his teeth against the feeling and the sudden conviction that Pete really _can_ see his bones, that Pete's playing with him.

He catches Pete's wrist and squeezes in warning, his thumb settling right at the base of Pete's palm, the pressure right on the tendons.

Pete gasps and Gabe meets his eyes. For a minute they stare at each other and Gabe knows--knows all the way down and through--that Pete can see right through him, inside like an x-ray and better. Not just bones, but juices and nerves and needs and _thoughts_.

The conviction fades when he loosens his grip and Pete averts his eyes. Gabe slips back into the conversation, feeling Pete's body warm against his own but not reaching for him. They need to be careful. They need time and privacy and to be entirely different people, probably, with entirely different lives and histories and needs.

"Quit it," Pete mumbles, shifting to rest his chin on Gabe's arm. "You're poking me."

"I am not."

"Well, not _now_. I moved." Pete's arm slides over Gabe's waist in a loose embrace and Gabe closes his eyes, counting his own breaths in and out, letting the contact settle against his skin.

**

They stay out on the deck together after Nate and Spencer call it a night and stumble off to call a cab, after Ryland wanders inside the use the bathroom and doesn't come back, even after the motion sensors click over and it goes dark except the eerie blue of the pool lights. Pete ends up on his back, legs tangled up in a towel and Gabe half-on top of him, their skin sticking together with sweat where they touch.

Gabe takes Pete's wrists in his hands again, staring down at them. Structures of skin and tendon and bone, ink twisted all around on top, delicate-looking and strong underneath. He rubs his thumbs in slow arcs over them and then presses again, deep and firm, not relenting until he feels Pete's broken gasp against his skin.

"What do you want?" Gabe asks quietly, easing the pressure and rubbing again. Pete's going to bruise, dark shapes blooming on his wrists like secrets. Gabe should let go. Leaving marks, that's over some kind of line, one he never thought about before but knows he's seeing now.

Pete squirms under him, arching up. "Do it again. Harder."

"Harder?"

"Fuck. Yeah."

This is about what Pete wants, Gabe reminds himself. First, last, and always, what Pete wants. Gabe doesn't want anything here. He's facilitating, that's all. "Okay." He takes a breath and centers his weight over Pete, settling his grip on each of Pete's wrists, warm and not-fragile in his hands. "Harder, huh?"

He brings his weight down into it this time, squeezing but also pressing, digging his grip in while Pete's mouth falls open and his breath comes out in a harsh moan. It's a sound of pain, but not as intense as Gabe expects; it sounds like relief, too. Like...fun. A little like sex.

He lets go and sits back, wiping his mouth on his arm. "We're kinda fucked up, man."

"Fuck." Pete's breathing hard, his eyes closed and his face flushed sweaty-dark in the dim light. "Fuck. More. Do it again."

"I mean, we're high as shit."

"Do more." Pete's voice is breathless, needy. "Something else. Something that hurts more. Want to really feel it."

Gabe takes a breath, forcing himself to hold it for a beat and let it go slowly. "I think we're a little too fucked up for this right now."

Pete's eyes open and they stare at each other for a minute. Gabe can't imagine what his own face looks like, but Pete looks frustrated, and like he sees a challenge, and...certain.

This is a problem. Pete with conviction, Pete dead-set on a course of action, that is a _problem_. Anyone who had spent more than a day with him, ever, could confirm that, so it's not just Gabe being paranoid or a dick. Pete is full of certainty about their kinky games and that is probably going to end in disaster.

"I told you," Pete says. "In New York. I told you I wanted more and you said you would."

"Yeah, I think maybe I still don't quite get what I was agreeing to, Pete."

"Didn't you read the links I sent you?"

"I read them. I looked at them." Until they made him dizzy and sweaty, made his stomach clench. "Some of them are very detailed and some of them I think might actually be anatomically impossible. I suspect Photoshop." Pete is glaring at him and kind of puffing up like an angry hedgehog. "I don't get which of...those things you want from me. The specifics."

Pete stares at him, deflating slightly but not losing the glare. It's too fucking weird out here on the deck, in the fucking blue lights; Gabe's not worried about his own bones anymore. He can see Pete's, can see the skull under his skin, eyes like two gaping empty holes, a skeleton walking and talking and asking him for things.

"Specifics," Pete says. "You want to know specifics."

Gabe stands up, his feet barely catching his weight as he struggles to find his balance. Too old to move like that unless he's sober or makes himself shorter. Can't be that fast. And he can't let Pete smell fear. Or anticipation. Both very bad, and probably just smoke illusions anyway.

"We're too fucked-up," he says, gesturing at the door. "Too messed up to talk about this tonight. Okay? Tomorrow."

Pete's still staring at him with skull-eyes, jaw set tight, hollow and scary. "You promise?"

"Tomorrow, brother." They never let any conversation carry over to the next day. It's one of their secret rules, the ones neither of them ever mentioned out loud because they just _know_. The best kind. "Okay?"

Pete doesn't answer, but he nods, and climbs to his feet to follow Gabe into the house. Ryland took the guest room, like the syphilitic flaming cockhead he is, leaving Gabe with the couch and his feet dangling out in midair.

He dreams about bones, cold and white with sharp edges. He dreams about Pete and slow-growing bruises. He wakes up sweaty and groggy every couple of hours, all night long.

**

Ryland vanishes after coffee, saying something about shoes or guitars or friends. Gabe isn't really paying attention. His head is throbbing in rhythm with Pete's air conditioner and his back feels like someone's been hitting it with hammers all night.

"You're too tall for my couch." Pete puts a plate in front of him, holding a bran muffin, half an avocado, and a single grape.

"Tonight I take your bed and you get the couch." The grape looks sad and lonely, so he eats it. "You got anything for my back?"

"Prescription or non?"

"As fun as it would be to play guess the pill, it's a little early in the day."

"Who are you and what have you done with Gabe?" Gabe flips him off and Pete laughs, walking over to the cupboard by the sink. "Right, right, you don't do that anymore."

"I didn't formally stop. I'm just experimenting."

Pete tosses a bottle of ibuprofen at him, putting a little spin on it so it rattles as it goes. "Speaking of experimenting."

"Dude." Gabe dry-swallows two pills and washes two more down with coffee. "You're breaking the code."

"Huh?"

Gabe takes a bite of the muffin. Apparently he hallucinated the entire existence of their little arrangement. Great.

"Gabe? What code?"

"Never mind." The muffin tastes like dirt. Pete better not feed his kid this shit. Grapes and dirt muffins. "Talk."

"In New York. I asked and you agreed."

"Yes."

"But apparently you didn't know what you were agreeing to."

"Maybe not entirely."

Pete exhales and stares up at the ceiling. Gabe studies his jaw, his throat, his biceps. Dude's been lifting a few weights. His eyes dart down the line of Pete's forearms, skimming over the tattoos and searching for the bruises he's sure he must have left. He remembers the heat of Pete's skin under his hands. He knows it _has_ to have bruised. But Pete has his hands tucked away in his lap, and Gabe can't see anything.

"What is our agreement _now_?" he asks, not able to take another minute of silence and watching Pete's throat bob as he swallows. "Or, well, before, I guess. Before the last visit."

"When you agreed."

"Yeah. Fine. Whatever."

Pete drops his jaw to look at Gabe on the level again, frowning. "What's your perception of it?"

"Seriously? You answer a question with a question?"

"You seem to be the one having a problem here. I know what I want."

 _That's what makes me nervous_ , Gabe thinks, but all he says is "Shithead."

"Whatever. Talk."

Gabe sighs and slumps low in his chair. "You need things. You ask for them. I give them."

"You do them."

"I give them to you. And the...release, the relief, the whatever you get out of it."

Pete nods slowly, his eyes on something distant. "Yeah. Yeah. That's about right."

Gabe waits, staring at him, but Pete seems to be settling into his head, somewhere far away and quiet. "And now?"

Pete's eyes snap to him and focus. "I don't want to have to ask."

"I'm not a mind reader."

"I know. I mean, I don't want to have to...have specifics. A plan. I want you to do the plan. I want you to do things to me, to make me do things, whatever, I want you to...I want to give you control. I want to do what you want."

Gabe takes a breath, then another. His lungs feel tight and his voice wants to shake, but he won't let it. "Oh."

"I want to give you control," Pete says again, and Gabe can hear it in his voice, the hope, the longing.

Gabe thinks about the websites, the lists of links. Bodies stretched and bent and yielding. Bruises and cuffs. Fists and fingers and floggers and paddles. Things he doesn't actually know the words for because looking at the pictures made his face and his guts so hot and tight he had to click away instead of reading the text.

"You want me to hurt you."

"I want you to do whatever you want."

"Anything I want." He has to test, to check, to make sure that Pete knows what he's saying, that he means what he means. "You want me to do anything I want to you."

"Yes."

"Not check with you first. Not work from a list. Just do it."

"Yes."

"You don't...want to start right now, do you?"

Pete kind of smiles. His mouth twists up on the edges, anyway. "I have to pick Bronx up from school in like an hour."

"Right. So. Next time." He digs his fingers into his thigh to keep from putting his head down on the table to fight a rush of relief and disappointment and a little nausea. He needs something else to eat.

"Gabe?" The certainty finally falters. Of course it does, now that Gabe's about to fucking puke. "You want to, right? It's cool?"

"Of course, Pete." Anything Pete wants. Always.

"You don't think I'm a dirty sick freak or whatever."

"Pete."

"I just...I trust you."

Gabe gets up and comes around the table, pulling Pete into a hug. "Brothers, man," he mutters against Pete's hair, closing his eyes and remembering to breathe. "Always."

**

"So," Ryland says, waving his headphones in a lazy arc as if that's going to untangle the cords. "Did you and Pete sort out your weirdness?"

Gabe blinks up at the fasten seatbelt sign, wishing it would turn off so he can shift into one of the three positions that make folding his body into an airline seat bearable. "No."

"Unfortunate."

"We sort of turned it up to eleven."

Ryland blinks, letting the headphones drop and dangle toward the floor. "Elaborate."

"It's simple." Fucking red-eye flights. His head already feels full of sand and they've only been off the ground for five minutes. "It's the same as before."

"When you were just doing what he told you, and therefore it totally wasn't about you at all."

"Yes."

"And now you are..."

"He's not going to tell me what to do. I come up with stuff. I do whatever I want."

"And how is that at all the same as the other thing?"

"Because he wants me to do what I want. Doing what I want _is_ doing what he wants. I still bear no responsibility for this. I'm just helping him out. Good energy. Positive flow. Same as before."

"Do you actually want my opinion, or was this all just to hear your own voice?"

"Lay it on me."

"I'll use small words so you can understand. This is a bad idea. A really bad idea. Actually a terrible idea. You need to stop right now, and you need to tell him no, and then you need to call his shrink and probably find one for yourself while you're at it."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know _you_."

"I'm going to sleep. Forget I told you anything."

"Right," Ryland mutters, taking up the headphones again. "It was the just wanting to hear your own voice thing. I should've been able to guess that."

Gabe dreams about skin crossed with tattoos. He dreams about blood and his own fingers. He wakes up half-hard and sweating and alone in his seat at the gate at JFK.

**

Another couple of weeks pass before Pete comes out to New York. Gabe spends the time neglecting to research anything. Preparation seems wrong, like he's taking this seriously on a level beyond making Pete happy. Plus he feels weird, looking at those websites. He's thought about them extensively and "weird" is definitely the word for it. Super-weird.

Pete texts him from the airport, then the cab, then the sidewalk outside his building. Gabe goes downstairs to get him instead of just buzzing him in, carrying his bag for him and watching him closely in the elevator. Pete isn't withdrawn and silent and visibly in pain like every other time they've done something like this. There aren't metaphorical cracks all over the surface of his aura. He's bright-eyed and fucking...bouncy. Excited.

The stakes suddenly seem a lot higher.

Back in the apartment, he tosses Pete's bag down by the door and locks up, deliberately fumbling with the locks while Pete sheds his shoes and jacket. "Thanks for letting me crash with you, dude. It's nice not to have to deal with the hotel bullshit."

"Plus, you know. You want stuff from me."

Pete doesn't answer right away, and Gabe looks up from the door, turning his head just enough to catch Pete in the corner of his eye. Pete's staring at him, wide-eyed and a little hurt.

"I'm not just using you for crash space and spankings, Gabe."

"I know. It was a joke."

"We're _friends_. Right?"

"Of course we are. Chill. It was a joke."

"If this is going to be weird..." Pete waves his arms, stepping back toward the windows on the far wall. The lights outside fall over him in patterns of shadow and light that make his tattoos pop out to Gabe's eyes. Distracting. "I mean, fucking forget it, okay, if it's going to be weird I don't even--"

The arm-waving is distracting enough that it takes another beat for Gabe to process what Pete's saying, to figure out that fucking duh, of course he's nervous too. That extra space is enough time for Pete to turn really red and suddenly seem to shrink by half, his shoulders hunching and his weight sinking down on his heels.

"No, no, dude, I know," Gabe says belatedly, taking a step toward him and reaching out his hand. "I'm not saying that. It's not weird. I was just making a dumbass joke. You know me. Dumb jokes and bad hair."

"Your hair's fine."

"Dumb jokes and bad music?"

Pete huffs a little laugh, but his shoulders relax. "Don't even."

"Hey. I know 'Snakes on a Plane' is a work of art, but the rest of my repertoire, man, it's all been downhill..."

"Shut up." Pete lifts his chin and looks at him. "We're gonna do this? You're sure?"

"I'm sure." He takes another step into the room, trying to think on his feet. Pete said something about spanking. Good enough. "Go in the bedroom and get undressed. I'll be in in a minute."

He doesn't have a paddle or a whip or anything like that, and using his hand feels wrong. Too intimate, or something. He turns in place, staring around his living room like some kind of spanking implement is going to appear out of nowhere. No luck. Shit.

He vaguely remembers one of the websites featuring a guy getting beaten with a wooden spoon. He doesn't have any of those, but maybe he can improvise. He goes to the kitchen and digs through his drawer of utensils, staring blankly at corkscrews and ice-cream scoops until his eyes fall on a flippy-thing. Spatula, but not the kind for baking. The other kind, for flipping eggs. This one's plastic and he can't remember ever actually using it. That'll do.

He tucks that into the back pocket of his jeans and goes into the bedroom. Pete didn't turn any of the lights on, so he does, then stands there blinking for a minute while his eyes and brain adjust on totally separate paths. His eyes just have to deal with brightness. His brain has Pete bent over the edge of the bed. It's not the naked part that's distracting; Pete being naked is pretty much a normal fact of life. It's the way his head is bowed and his back is arched a little, the way his feet are carefully spaced apart so his weight is centered, the way he's sticking his ass out just a little bit so Gabe's eyes are drawn right to it.

He's totally copying the pose from all those goddamn websites, and it isn't fair, and it isn't going to help Gabe stay detached and focused at all.

Pete looks over at him, squinting. "Dude. I was going for mood lighting. Come on."

That helps a little bit. "Be quiet."

"Hurry up, then. You took forever, I thought maybe you changed your mind or something."

"Be quiet, Pete."

"I just--"

"Pete." He doesn't know where that tone of voice came from. Somewhere down near the bottom of his chest, it feels like. And possibly from a guy who weighs about fifty more pounds and bench-presses small cars. He probably looks as surprised as Pete does.

Pete's mouth shuts with a click and he bows his head again, shifting his weight back and forth. His dick's filled out a little, pressed up against the edge of the bed now, and Gabe curls his fingers more tightly around the spatula, the impulse to smack delicate flesh with cold plastic flashing through him.

Pete rocks forward and back on his heels and Gabe takes a step forward, reaching out to run his fingers down Pete's spine. "Relax." A tremor runs through Pete, like he touched a live wire, and Gabe shakes his head, pressing down a little between his shoulder blades. "Breathe."

Pete takes a slow, shallow breath, then a deeper one, then nods. "Yeah," he says, barely above a whisper. "Yeah, okay."

That's permission, which is reassuring; Gabe mentally wraps that around himself like a deflector shield while he shifts his grip on the spatula, brings it back, and smacks the flat surface hard against the curve of Pete's ass. Pete grunts, his hips jerking forward and his balance swaying. "Fuck."

He never quite gets into a rhythm, but it's working anyway. Pete's breathing gets faster and rougher, his skin gets flushed, he makes little grunts and moans after each crack of the plastic. The sounds hit Gabe low in the pit of his stomach, making his pulse pound harder and his hands shake so he has to shift the handle of the spatula in his palm between strokes.

The really mesmerizing part is his skin, though. The spatula is slatted, three little slices out of the surface, and every impact on the curve of Pete's ass and thigh leaves a bright red square with three lines standing out pale. Gabe can't take his eyes off them. He can't stop imagining how they feel--not from the inside, not what Pete's feeling, but how they would feel if he reached out and ran his hand over them. If he pressed down against them. If he pinched or scratched.

And that's crazy, that's weird, he doesn't want to hurt Pete. Not for real. Just this surface-level shit that he can tell himself is pretend. But every time he hits and Pete reacts, he feels it in his guts, a shiver of recognition. Something in him getting off on making Pete react like that. Making things happen. That makes sense; he likes making things happen. He likes running the fucking show. He made two bands happen from the ground up, he planned and strategized and got in with Samuel L. Motherfucking Jackson. He built a multiplatinum band out of bad jokes and self-loathing.

This isn't the same. It's not music, it's not a career. It's skin turning red and white under the impact of something he's holding in his hand. It's breath and sweat and the hot rush of blood in the veins, it's the little whimpers Pete's starting to make as each mark overlies others. He's _making that happen_.

He can fucking taste it.

**

Gabe goes about his life with dignity. He does not fucking _hide_.

But he also doesn't answer Pete's texts for three days, until Ryland looks up from the laptop in-studio to inform him that Pete's making sad Tweets about how sometimes you fuck up and your friends leave you alone in a field, and he thinks maybe that's a metaphor, so maybe Gabe should call the short dude and straighten things out.

Gabe waits to do that until he's home, lying on the couch with his feet up on two pillows and a vodka tonic at his left hand. And the bottle of vodka within easy reach, because he likes to be prepared.

"Hello?" Pete sounds stuffed up and exhausted. Nothing new there. That's Pete's default mode. "Gabanti?"

"Hey, man."

"Dude. Where've you been? I texted you and you didn't text back. Like a million times. Is my phone fucked up?"

"No, dude, no. Just...been busy. Bullshit." He rubs at his eyes, then pinches his temples hard, willing himself to be a smarter, more articulate person. "You know how it is. Nothing personal."

"You sure?"

Pete fucking knows him too well. "Think I'm coming down with something. Dragging ass all over the place."

"That sucks. Take some echinacea."

"Got it on my shopping list."

Pete's quiet for a minute, breathing into the phone. Gabe closes his eyes and breathes in time with him, picturing Pete sitting on his couch with his feet tucked up under him and one of Bronx's toys clutched in his free hand.

"You're sure it isn't anything else?" Pete asks finally. "What we did?"

"Do you really think I'd lie to you, Pete?"

"There's lies and then there's omissions. Star Trek."

"Pete."

"There's lies and then there's tact. Buffy."

" _Pete_."

"Okay, okay. You promise?"

"I fucking pinky-swear, man." And he's not even lying, really. Not now. He was lying before, but in the space of reassuring Pete he changed his own mind. He needs to fix Pete's mood, keep him okay and on the level. Pete's counting on him for that. And at this distance, doing that's just being a good friend, none of the more complicated or messy things.

"Okay." Pete falls silent again, and Gabe waits him out, rubbing his thumb slowly along the throbbing ache in his left temple when he doesn't have his glass in his hand.

"I was talking about you today," Pete says after a minute. "Well, I was talking about _Night Shades_."

"With who?"

"My therapist."

"Why?"

"I dunno. It came up." Gabe can't imagine what possible context it could come up except telling the therapist about the spanking. The thought makes his stomach twist. "I played it for him on my iPod."

A stupid question's better than just sitting there feeling nauseous. "What did he think?"

"We both agreed you should use your lower register more. It's awesome."

"My lower register."

"Yeah. You drop into it on the duet with Victoria, and it sounds great."

"Wow. Okay." He opens his eyes, staring up through his fingers at the ceiling. "That is not at all where I expected this conversation to go."

"Where did you think it would go?"

Pete is so full of _questions_. A flash of an image goes through Gabe's head, of stuffing a gag in Pete's mouth and tying it tight, and he closes his fingers again to block his eyes. "I have no idea. Not there."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Whatever. Tell me Bx stories, huh? What's he up to these days?"

**

On Gabe's next trip to LA, his knock on the door is answered by a tiny doorman whose solemn face breaks into a smile at the sight of him.

"Monster Bronxster," Gabe says, grinning down. "How's it going, man? Keeping it awesome?"

"So awesome." Bronx holds out his arms and Gabe shakes his head, stepping inside and closing the door.

"I don't know, dude. You might be too big for hugs, don't you think?" Bronx's stricken face is so much like Pete's that it's eerie. Gabe quickly drops his bag and scoops him up, holding him tight. "I'm just playing. Nobody's ever too big for hugs."

"Better not be," Pete says, stepping into the entryway. "If I'm getting cut off from Gabe hugs, that's going to be a problem."

"Not a chance." Gabe sets Bronx down and tugs Pete in. Pete smells like deodorant from the mountain-fresh category, coffee, and something lemony. "What are you guys up to?"

"We just had dinner, so we're washing our dishes." Pete holds his hand out to Bronx, who takes it and starts walking Pete to the kitchen. Gabe falls in step and bumps Pete's shoulder lightly, giving him a questioning look. He's only in LA overnight, and he assumes they're not going to be doing anything kinky while the kid's there. That would take more planning than either of them had put in, or indeed are capable of.

Pete shrugs, a what-can-you-do curve at one corner of his mouth. His eyes are all lit up and soft, the way they get for Bronx, and Gabe resolutely shoves down a familiar pang of jealousy. Kids, a family. If they're going to be in the picture for him at all, they aren't yet, and that's down to his own choices. No crying over spilled vodka.

"What about after the dishes?" he asks, pitching his voice loud and bright so he's asking Pete and Bronx both. "What are we going to do tonight?"

"Dinosaurs," Bronx says without hesitation.

"Dinosaurs? What happened to Nemo?"

"We are so over Nemo. Nemo is out." Pete lets go of Bronx's hand and pulls a little stool up to the sink, steadying it while Bronx climbs up and then handing him a towel. "We're all about dinosaurs now."

"Awesome." Gabe leans against the counter next to them. "Dad washes, you dry, I stack, right?"

Something eases in his chest, standing there, and while they sit on the living-room floor playing dinosaurs, and after, when Bronx is in bed and Pete leans against Gabe on the couch while they watch Top Chef. Things aren't _changed_. They can go back and forth. They're still friends, along with the rest, and it's a huge relief that follows him back to New York. The way Pete sees him hasn't changed.

It's settling enough that when he gets home, he opens some of Pete's links and starts doing research. The next visit, he'll be a little better prepared.

Picking what to replicate is easy. The guy in the picture looks like Pete, only without tattoos, and Gabe feels a hot jolt go through him looking at it. Picturing Pete like that. If he can make Pete look like that--mold his body and limbs like art--

Gabe closes his eyes tightly, frozen for a minute by the thought and his own gut-level response. Fuck. His reaction to the idea of shaping Pete how he wants him is in no way appropriate. Hunger and power and want and it all needs to go the fuck away, right now, because it's not _about_ him, it's about what Pete needs.

He looks at the picture again, tracing his finger down the line of the guy's spine, and tries to only see it from that angle. What Pete wants. What he needs.

Pete will love it, and Gabe will love seeing him let go. That's the right way to think about it.

**

Gabe digs the cuffs out of the bottom of the box. Not the cheap gag kind, or even a scary set of police-issue; these are for-real Serious Kinky Person cuffs, leather and lined and quality worksmanship and shit. He bought them online and he's never touched them besides throwing them in the box. They're heavier than he expected. Solid.

Pete holds his hands for the cuffs, bouncing on his toes when Gabe buckles them in place. "Be quiet," Gabe says, half a request and half a warning. He needs to concentrate, and he has a half-cooked little theory that if Pete can't react too much, Gabe might not get too caught up in it himself. It'll be easier to keep his distance.

He fastens the cuffs together and runs his hand down Pete's back to the curve of his ass under gray boxer-briefs. Pete's steady, not trembling or squirming. That could mean that he trusts Gabe, or that he's bored.

"Go over by the door," Gabe says, nodding at the closed door to the bathroom. "Kneel down in front of it. Keep your head down and don't move."

He watches Pete do as he's told and mentally compares it to the picture. Pete's pose is a rough sketch; he needs Gabe to correct him, perfect the lines, add the finishing touches to the work. The line between _want to_ and _do it_ is thin here, in this room, between them. Gabe can have whatever he wants with the slightest of effort.

Pete glances back over his shoulder, catches Gabe looking, and immediately faces front again, ducking his head low. "Don't move," Gabe says again, his voice low and half-caught in his throat. He pulls the rest of the supplies out from under his bed and crosses to Pete's side.

When he ordered the cuffs he bought a spreader bar, too, scary-looking but simple to adjust once he's stared at it long enough to make it make sense. Gabe takes hold of the bar once it's set and pulls, dragging Pete's feet farther back from his body. It makes his knees rotate and bow outward, his upper body tilting forward until his head rests against the door to compensate for the shift in balance and inability to use his hands.

Gabe takes a short length of rope with a snap on one end and ties the free end to the doorknob, letting the snap fall against the door. Pete stares at it in puzzlement and Gabe leaves him to it, taking a long moment to untangle another short rope, this one with snaps on both ends, from a shorter length of leather. He runs the latter between his fingers, admiring how soft it is, then moves to Pete's side and buckles it snug around his throat.

"Oh," Pete whispers. His head falls back and he stares up at Gabe wide-eyed, face flushed dark, lips spit-slick.

"Don't talk." Gabe runs his fingers over Pete's hair, then down the back of his neck to tug at the collar. Pete tries to move into the gesture and almost loses his balance, until Gabe steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. "Easy. I bet you didn't think you'd get a collar from me." Pete shakes his head, tongue slipping out to wet his lips again. "Well, this one isn't yours to keep." The disappointment that crosses Pete's face makes an answering a hot pulse in Gabe's heart, like a guttering candle. He's an asshole and a sick fuck and this is something kind of close to perfect. It's making his pulse pick up and his palms sweat and some dark little place in his head hum in quiet satisfaction like it normally only does on stage.

He clips the snap end of the rope tied to the doorknob to the ring on the collar. Pete gives a low, startled grunt as the short length of the rope pulls him forward. He can lean on the rope, though, let it take his weight like the door did earlier, and after a moment he finds a new equilibrium. He glances up at Gabe, sweat beading his face now, waiting for approval.

Gabe smiles. He knows it's not a nice smile. It feels tight and sharp on his own face. Suddenly he remembers the night on Pete's deck, and thinking all of their bones were exposed. That's what this is, again. Looking at him, Pete must see a skull's grin.

Pete's eyes are wide and he's breathing hard, more sweat running down from his hairline as he works to hold the position his body's been bent into. Gabe moves around behind him, stooping to grab the double-snapped rope from the floor. "That's good," he says, and Pete smiles a little. "Let's see if you can take a little more."

Without waiting for a response-- _anything I want_ \--he snaps one end to the joining-piece of the cuffs and the other to the spreader bar. Pete gasps as his shoulders are pulled back, then groans roughly, arms shaking with strain as he tries to find a balancing point.

Gabe straightens and steps back, watching him. Pete wobbles, tugging against the rope holding him to the door; he closes his eyes and grits his teeth and moves in sharp little jerks, trying to hop forward on his knees. Little whimpers escape his throat, strained and shocked. He's helpless, caught on a precipice.

 _I did that_ , Gabe thinks, watching him jerk forward for an instant of relief before gravity and his bonds pull him back again. _I did. Me._ The satisfaction is hot and heady and smug, going through him like a chemical jolt or the scream of a crowd.

Pete finds a balance point and holds it, trembling and perfect. His eyes cut sideways to Gabe, frantic and hopeful, and the thought flashes through Gabe's mind even as he steps forward to undo the snap at Pete's throat.

 _Anything I want. Anything._

 _I don't have to let him go at all._

**

He and Ryland have a DJ gig in Denver. Gabe always feels kind of cheated by Denver; it's not actually in the mountains, you can just see them off in the distance, out of reach and taunting.

"We can rent a car tomorrow and visit a mountain if you really want to," Ryland says, frowning at his phone.

"I don't, really."

"I didn't think so."

"It's the principle of the thing."

Ryland lifts his eyes from the screen and squints at him. "What?"

"They promote themselves as being in the fucking mountains, and they're not. It's a lie. Bullshit."

"Since when does bullshit go against your principles?"

"Fuck you." Gabe slumps down in his chair, staring out the hotel-room window at the distant line of mountains.

"You've been cranky lately." Ryland's attention appears to be back on his phone, but Gabe knows him well enough to know that's a lie. And Ryland knows him well enough to know that he knows. It's all orchestrated. "The last couple of days. You've been a real dick, in fact."

"I'm fine."

"You're thinking too much about something."

"Or maybe I'm back to being a fuck-up." Gabe glares at him, rubbing his thumb restlessly over the arm of his chair, the urge to pick a fight rising like heat up his spine. He can yell and carry on and say all the nasty shit he doesn't really mean, and Ryland will shake it off and ignore him or just get up and leave. Not as satisfying as someone who will fight back, but safer.

"No." Ryland types something quickly and glances up again. "That's a totally different mode of jackass. Right now you're just thinking too much. Is it the Pete thing?"

"That's completely under control."

Ryland actually laughs out loud, flopping down on his back on the bed and shaking his head. "Wow. Okay. I hope you don't actually believe that."

"I hate you." Gabe grabs his coat and heads for the door. "I'll see you at the club."

**

Pete texts him a lot. That's not new, Pete's always texted him a lot, but now every time his phone buzzes it's like a needle sliding under his skin, delivering a quick little hit of adrenaline. He doesn't even know if his reaction is fear or desire or what; it's a raw brain-stem response. Could go in a lot of different directions.

They're not dirty texts or anything; they're not demanding or even hinting. They're just Pete's thoughts, as usual. What he thinks about a movie or a TV show or a car he passed on the street. What he's having for dinner. How he can't sleep. How the label is fucking him over. How he heard "Stereo Hearts" on the radio and wants to hop a plane and visit Travie. How he saw a really pretty bird outside Starbucks today.

It's like for Pete, things are still totally normal. Like he has no idea what he's doing to Gabe, how this _thing_ they have is tying him in knots inside. Pete's needs are pushing him closer and closer to admitting that he wants things he shouldn't, and he's a shitty, shitty, awful person in a way he's been trying to convince himself he's _not_ anymore, and Pete doesn't even _notice_.

Fucking texts. Fucking little needle sticks. He's not the one who likes tattoos.

**

"Get undressed." Gabe's voice sounds strange to his own ears, hollow and faraway. Pete obeys instantly, stripping down to his skin and tossing his clothes into a messy heap on the floor. Gabe's lips peel back from his teeth in a painful snarl; that feels weird, too, mask-like, but it's a kind of relief to snarl at Pete to _clean up his fucking shit, fold it, put it on the chair_. It's tension being released somewhere inside him, tension he didn't even realize was there. Pete's startled, uncertain glance as he moves to gather up the clothes isn't welcome, exactly, but it feels good, too. Satisfying. Like it's filling up the space the tension left behind.

The clothes folded and neatly on the chair, Pete turns to Gabe again, hands falling to his sides, expression open and hopeful. _Have I been good?_ Gabe can imagine him saying, like a kid. _Can I have a present now?_ Like Pete isn't the reason he feels like this, Pete's presents rocking his self-control, Pete's needs chipping away at what he thought he knew about himself.

He walks over to his box of supplies, tossed in haphazardly and tangled up in a mess. He doesn't acknowledge Pete's eager eyes or the way he takes a hesitant step to follow Gabe to the box. His brain is going fast all of a sudden, careening around the rails, taking the corners hard. He wants. He needs. He's fucking confused and his head is full of sharp edges and it's all Pete's fault and the little shit doesn't even know, doesn't even notice, doesn't ask if he's okay, just keeps _being_ here, hopeful and eager for whatever Gabe might give him.

 _Anything I want_.

"Don't move," he snaps, catching Pete taking another step from the corner of his eye. "For fuck's sake. Just hold the fuck still for once."

Pete immediately comes to a halt, his eyes widening. Uncertainty and trust are warring in his face, but Gabe doesn't care to wait and see what wins. He crosses over to Pete's side and grabs him by the arms, hauling them around behind his back. "Wrists." Pete holds them up and Gabe buckles the cuffs in place, one at a time, then the snap that holds them together, keeping Pete's wrists a bare inch apart at the small of his back.

"On your knees." Pete drops, tilting his chin so he's looking up at Gabe, waiting for praise. "Look at the floor. Don't look at me. Is this a beauty pageant?"

"Sorry," Pete says, looking down. Gabe stares at him for a minute, struck frozen by the line of his back, the slight swell of his throat, the barely-visible turns of his ribs. Pete's made up of skin and muscle and bone, and suddenly that's sharply, starkly at the front of Gabe's awareness, the fragile collection of his tissues and how gorgeous and messy and thrilling it would be to tear them apart.

His heart is pounding in his chest so hard he can't breathe or think. "Don't move."

He grabs the spreader bar and squats down to buckle the end straps around Pete's ankles and adjust the bar to hold them apart. Pete makes a little noise, low in his throat. "Don't move," Gabe repeats again, and Pete ducks his head a little lower, a shiver running down his spine.

Gabe gets to his feet and circles Pete slowly, staring down at him. His throat is dry and his heart is still hammering, his stomach tight and twisted. His voice is even stranger to his ears than before, a raw bark. "Get up."

Pete glances up at him, eyes wide. Gabe's hands curl into fists at his sides, and he rubs his fingers against his sweaty palms, willing himself to breathe. "Get. Up."

Pete takes a breath and goes to gather his legs under himself. It's clumsy and difficult with the bar in place and without his hands for balance. Gabe waits, counting off long moments by the pounding of his heart, while Pete struggles through several attempts and finally finds the trick of it enough to begin to stand.

Gabe's hand lashes out fast, catching Pete's shoulder and shoving him roughly back to his knees. "Get up."

Pete shoots him an irritated look and tries again, his muscles tensing with strain as he finds his balance. Gabe shoves him down again. "Get up."

"What the--" Gabe paces a sharp circle around Pete, shoving him down from behind this time before he does more than shift his weight. "What the fuck?"

"Shut up." Gabe's voice is ice and ashes, hurting his throat as he speaks. He's totally hands off the wheel; it's something ugly speaking with his voice, something he'd claim he doesn't know except he _does_ , he fed it with booze and pills and jaded, defensive, entitled bullshit for the better part of a decade. "Stand the fuck up."

This time he shoves hard enough that Pete falls forward onto the floor, sprawled on his chest. "Look at you." Gabe circles him again, knocking Pete's shoulder with his foot. "God, fucking useless."

Pete's breathing hard, his whole torso heaving. He glances up, then drops his gaze to the floor again. Gabe can't stop, now that he's started; the ugly thing in his throat is running wild. "Worthless. You're a fucking joke. This is the best you can do? The best you can give me? Glad I'm finding out now. We're all going to find out, you know. Everybody." Pete twists on the floor, trying to cover his head but unable with his arms bound as they are. "And once we all know, we're fucking done with you, you know that, right? Because you're worthless. You're nothing. You hear me? You are _nothing_."

He's shouting, he realizes too late to catch himself. Way too late to stop. His face is hot, his whole body shaking with tension and adrenaline, and he's shouting at the top of his lungs down at Pete's prone, twisted figure on the floor.

Pete's shaking, his face buried against the carpet. It takes a minute for Gabe's brain to catch up all the way and identify the other sound in the room besides the pounding of his own heart: the low, broken moans that are coming from Pete, fear and pain and something darker, something helpless and alone and young.

 _Fuck. Fuck._

"Pete." He drops to his knees, reaching to fumble with the cuffs. Pete jerks away from him, trying to make himself smaller, covering his face with his hands as soon as the clip is undone. Gabe leaves them buckled around his wrists, moving instead to take the spreader bar off. When his legs are free Pete scrambles away from Gabe physically, huddling against the end of the couch.

"Pete," Gabe tries again. "Pete, dude, just...it was just a scene, man, just playing. Look at me, huh? Look at me. I didn't--"

Pete's shaking his head frantically, his face pressed against the upholstery. Gabe's stomach lurches. _Fuck_.

"I'll..." He gets to his feet, stepping back. "I'll leave you alone, okay? I'll get you help. Somebody safe."

He goes back to his bedroom to make the call, a full and undignified retreat. He stares at the phone and suddenly realizes he doesn't know what the fuck to do.

So he calls Ryland.

**

Ryland buzzes from downstairs twenty minutes later, which shouldn't be physically possible, but Gabe's definitely grateful for it. He has to cut back through the living room to get to the door, angling as far away from Pete as possible. Pete's breathing more normally, but he's still huddled at the foot of the couch and doesn't look up when Gabe goes through the room. Fuck.

"What happened?" Ryland asks when he gets upstairs, shouldering past Gabe into the apartment. "What the hell?"

"Some stuff got fucked up." Gabe points at Pete. "He needs...help. I can't. He won't...you need to help him."

"What did you do?"

It's said in bewilderment, not accusation, but it still knocks Gabe back a step. "I..."

Ryland's staring at him and Pete takes a weird, choking, gaspy little breath and it's more than Gabe can take. "I fucked up. Just like you knew I would, okay? It's what I do. Fuck up." He takes another step back, groping behind him for the door. "Take care of him, okay? Just...fix my fucking mistakes."

He bolts before Ryland can say anything else or ask any more questions.

**

Running away is classless bullshit. He doesn't know what else he was supposed to do, though. He couldn't keep standing there, with Ryland looking at him like that and Pete _being_ there, shaking and fucked over because Gabe's a twisted piece of shit.

He walks for blocks, zig-zagging through the streets and avenues, not trying to get anywhere but ending up at a shitty bar all the same. It's one that used to be their bar when they were working on Hot Mess. Lots of memories, lots of things he can't remember.

He gets a table instead of going to the bar, resting his head in his hands and trying to remind himself to breathe slowly, in and out, using his nose so he doesn't hyperventilate. His brain's going too fast, his heart and lungs can't keep up. He's got to slow it all down and coax his mind to follow.

"Can I get you anything?" the waitress asks from somewhere around his left elbow.

"French fries," he says without lifting his head. "And a seven & seven."

"Got it." She wanders away and he breathes some more. Starch and gin. The building blocks of life.

He sits there for two plates of fries and three drinks before someone slides into the booth across from him. "What?" he asks, not looking up. It has to be Ryland. Who else would have a reason to look?

"You going to share?" comes Alex's tired voice, and Gabe blinks, sitting back in his seat.

"What are you doing here?"

"What do you think I'm doing here?" Alex rolls his eyes and takes a fry, frowning down at it in vague distaste before he takes a bite. "Getting you and taking you home."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Do I look like I'm in the mood for this shit?" Alex gives him a sharp look and drops the rest of the fry back to the plate. "You're better. Or you were better. You've been a bearable human being again. Don't fuck it up, man."

"I already did."

"Not so bad that it can't be un-fucked."

"You know that for sure? You saw Pete?" He downs the rest of his drink and winces, pressing his tongue against his teeth to fight the swell of nausea. "Saw what I did to him?"

Alex catches the waitress' eye and shakes his head, then looks at Gabe and shakes it again. "No. Ry called me at home and I started hitting bars. But if you'd really fucked things up beyond all repair, he wouldn't have bothered to call me at all."

Gabe swirls the ice in the bottom of his glass. "That makes sense," he says reluctantly. "Ryland's a smart guy."

"We're all pretty smart." Alex's tone is pretty flat, but there's an edge under it. Worry. "So are you, when you're not being really dedicated to acting like an idiot."

"It's safer that way," Gabe mutters, mostly to himself. He tilts the glass so the ice rolls into his mouth and crunches it, looking past Alex to the wall.

"Safer?"

"If you're honest, you have to see the bad shit. If you put on a show, you can pretend it's not there too."

"I don't know if you need a therapist or a priest."

"A priest wouldn't do me all that much good, dude."

"Figurative language."

"Oppressive metaphor."

"Oh my God." Alex slumps lower in his seat, but he laughs, pushing his glasses up off his nose so he can rub his eyes. "Gabe, man, look, I'm not telling you what to do. I never tell you what to do."

"Nobody does."

"Right. You're the lone ranger, the cowboy out there in the woods with the...thing."

Gabe eyes him blankly. "I don't really do well in the woods."

"Shut up."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say it's time to grow the fuck up."

Gabe sits there for a minute, staring down at the half-empty plate. "You're probably right. But I really don't see how you got there from the stuff you were saying."

"Just go back to your fucking apartment. And I'm going to keep drinking on your tab."

**

Ryland's standing in the kitchen when Gabe gets back, frowning at a pot of something on the stove. "Did you know," he says without raising his eyes, "that you don't own a teakettle? Or, for that matter, any tea?"

"Those two things kind of go together."

"Right. Well. But Pete was like, could you make me some tea, so I went down to the bodega--I had to prop the door with a shoe, because you don't keep your spare keys anywhere logical--and I got tea, but there's no teakettle, so I'm heating water in a pot like I'm making soup or something. It feels weird."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not a big deal. Just, like. Heating water, man. You don't think about it being complicated until it is."

"Ryland. I mean I'm _sorry_."

Ryland glances up, meeting his eyes for a moment before nodding and turning away again. "Yeah, dude, I know you are. It's fine. Go talk to Pete."

The living room's empty now, the cuffs and spreader bar peeking out from under the couch. "Where is he?"

"Bedroom. Cleaned him up in the bathroom and then he wanted to lie down, and the bed seemed more comfortable than the couch. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"No. I don't mind." He has a destination now, an objective in sight, but he can't actually seem to move. He stands there in the kitchen doorway, staring at Ryland like a lost puppy, until Ryland sighs, turns the burner off, and comes over to wrap him up in a hug.

"Dude," he says against Gabe's hair, rubbing his back roughly. "It's going to be fine."

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. So trust me." He steps back and gives Gabe a little shove in the direction of the bedroom. "Have I ever been wrong?"

**

Pete's lying facedown on the bed, blanket thrown loosely over his waist, back and arms bare. Gabe hesitates in the doorway, frozen for a minute by how vulnerable he looks, then clears his throat. "Pete?"

"Gabe." Pete's voice is scratchy, but he doesn't jump or try to hide again. He turns his head, blinking back over his shoulder, and Gabe steps the rest of the way into the room and lets the door close behind him. "Hey."

"How are you doing?"

"Okay." Pete turns onto his back, rubbing his eyes quickly with the heels of his hands, then sits up. "I'm sorry about before."

"You're sorry?"

"I shouldn't have freaked out. That was stupid. I mean. The whole thing was--"

"Pete." Gabe shakes his head and takes another step forward, then catches himself. "Can I sit down?"

Pete tugs the blankets closer around his waist and nods. Gabe sits on the edge of the mattress, not close enough to crowd him but within arm's reach.

"I'm sorry," Pete says again, and Gabe shakes his head again in response. He's got to cut this off before it gets everything going in the wrong direction.

"I want you to listen to me, okay, brother? And I mean really listen, not just smile and nod your head while you think about whatever the hell you want. Okay?" Pete looks skeptical, but he nods and shifts closer, and Gabe takes a deep breath and tries to put his thoughts in some kind of order.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says finally, and Pete looks startled, sitting up straighter and shaking his head.

"What? No. No. You didn't, dude, not at all. I'm fine, I just overreacted."

"Okay, so I didn't physically hurt you, but I scared you. I fucked with your head. That's not cool."

"I'm fine."

"The whole point of this is supposed to be that you have a good time, and I fucked that up."

Pete goes still for a minute, his forehead furrowing deeply. "What?"

"I fucked up."

"No, the other part. It's not about me having a good time. It's about both of us having a good time. You do...I mean, you do _like_ doing this stuff with me, right? You're not just humoring me, are you?"

"Do I _like_ hitting you with things until you cry? What kind of sick asshole would I be if I said yes to that?"

Pete stares at him for a minute, then curls forward until his head is between his knees. "Oh, fuck."

"I'm sorry."

"Shut up. I swear to God, if you apologize one more time I will puke on you."

"You started apologizing first."

"Shut _up_." Pete sits up and glares at him, his face flushed and his hair sticking up weirdly. "You get nothing out of doing this with me?"

"I like seeing you happy."

"But that's it? That's...that's everything?"

Gabe shifts his weight, looking away from Pete to the ceiling, the floor, the painfully neat lines of clothes in his closet. Staring at those helps a little, actually. He has _useful_ things he channels his control-freakyness into, too. He just needs to focus on home organization and recording schedules, and he'll never have the impulse to tie a friend to a door again.

"Nothing else?" Pete's voice wavers a little, not quite cracking. "Jesus, Gabe."

Gabe shakes his head, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the perfect arrangement of his shirts. "Don't make me say it out loud, okay? It's bad enough to think about it."

"What? That you like having power and control?"

"I like _hurting_ you."

"But you don't hurt me. Not _really_. I mean, you don't leave scars or break limbs or anything. I give you control and you play with it, but you don't do anything crazy."

"Were you not here earlier today? Did you just miss that whole thing that happened?"

"Okay, so you're not perfect. We all get one free fuck-up." Pete falls quiet for a minute, trying to catch Gabe's eyes, and when he can't, he joins him in staring at the closet. "Why don't you tell me what it's like for you?"

"I don't..."

" _Try_."

Gabe takes a deep breath that shakes on the exhale. "It's like being on stage. Making them jump and scream and sing along. Making them feel what you want them to feel. Making them move, dance, fucking...come in their pants. Conducting the whole fucking room."

Pete nods and scoots closer. Gabe eyes the space between them on the mattress, his muscles tensing, but doesn't quite pull away. "Yeah. Yeah. I know that one. But, like. That's a feedback loop, you know? You're not just taking. You're giving them something, too. The music. The release. Everybody gets and everybody gives."

Gabe stares down at his hands, and when Pete's knee bumps against his, he lets it.

"They don't begrudge you the power, and you don't resent them getting their release." Pete's hand settles on Gabe's leg, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. "I'm pretty sure this is supposed to work the same way."

"You don't have any right to make this much sense."

"I'm pretty sure I'm not going to make a habit out of it."

Gabe wants to laugh, but if he does, he's pretty sure he'll cry. "What do we do now?"

"I'm starving. Are you hungry?"

"I had fries. And gin. I might puke, actually."

"Don't do that. Let's order pizza. Hang out."

"We're just going to drop the rest of it?"

"Oh, no. We're going to make up a plan. But pizza first. Seriously, I'm dying here."

**

Instead of a simple cloth blindfold, Gabe bought a heavy satin sleep mask. Pete scowls the first time he sees it, flapping his hands ineffectually behind his back.

"That looks like I'm going to a spa day."

"Do you want to do this or not?"

"I _do_ , but I'd like to keep some dignity." Gabe doesn't bother to answer that, just looks at him, and after a minute Pete blushes and ducks his head. "Fine. Whatever. Don't be so judgy."

"You're a doofus." Gabe touches the back of Pete's neck gently and Pete tilts his head back, closing his eyes for the mask to be tugged down into place. "Good?"

"Yes." Pete licks his lips and drops to his knees, wiggling a little until he's comfortable. That won't last.

Gabe takes a small foam-rubber ball from his suitcase and rubs it against Pete's lips. "Bite down on this. If you need me to stop, spit it out and tell me so." Pete opens his mouth and bites, huffing in frustration when Gabe pulls it back out of reach. Gabe smirks and plays with him for a minute, touching the ball to his cheek or his lips or the tip of his nose and then yanking it away when he bites for it. Pete's snapping at the air like a confused dog, brow creased with frustration, and Gabe can feel the warm, smug glow of satisfaction starting up in his head.

He can take his time, though. They've got all night. He brings the ball to Pete's lips again and holds it for him to bite down on, getting it settled between his teeth. "Good boy," he says as he steps away, letting Pete gauge his position from his voice. That was one thing they'd agreed on in their horribly awkward talk over pizza-- _No name-calling,_ Pete had said, _and maybe you can tell me I'm doing a good job, sometimes_ \--and Gabe's happy to do it. It's reassuring and doesn't take anything away from watching Pete squirm.

He surveys the line of supplies he set up on the dresser while Pete was getting undressed. A heavy spoon, one of those little wooden rakes from a sand garden, a bowl of ice cubes, a white candle, already lit and building up a healthy pool of wax.

He looks over his shoulder at where Pete's waiting, head bowed, eyes covered, muscles taut in his thighs.

"I'm going to turn you inside out," Gabe says conversationally, and Pete moans a little.

Gabe swears he can _taste_ it.


End file.
